


Riptide

by hello_imasalesman



Category: Bully (Video Games)
Genre: Childhood Friends, Crushes, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, Pre-Canon, Underage Drinking, Use of soundboard last names, that end of the summer time sadness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-07-07 23:20:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19859683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hello_imasalesman/pseuds/hello_imasalesman
Summary: It’s the annual end-of-the-summer party at the Bullworth Vale Yacht club, and Bif Taylor-Tremblay is entering Bullworth Academy in a month.





	Riptide

The end-of-the-summer party at the Bullworth Vale Yacht Club was a must-attend for all of those in the know and above a certain tax bracket in Old Bullworth Vale. It was a supposedly family-friendly affair that occurred a week before the school year began. Bif’s parents had brought him every year since he had turned seven, dumped off into the children’s room with a few nannies hovering nearby so the adults could have proper fun without the little monsters running under foot and around the bar. At twelve, he broke out with a few of the older children towards the end of the night, when they collectively threatened to get the exhausted nannies fired unless they let them out. But finally, at the mature age of thirteen, his father had allowed him to stay in the party proper.

“After all,” His father had said, squeezing his shoulder tight enough that it was hard not to flinch, “You’re no longer a child now, are you?”

His mother laid out the season’s best resortwear casual, a few of the pieces Bif half-heartedly circled in the catalog, a steam-pressed polo and a little visor with the Aquaberry initials stamped in a repetitive pattern over the brim. The Taylor-Tremblay’s arrived thirty minutes late, a respectable but not too presumptuous time to arrive for such an important soirée.

Bif stood gloomily by his parents’ sides, a glass of soda sweating in his hands. It was a much less thrilling affair when it was given instead of taken. Last year had felt like something grand. Direct disobedience was thrilling. Being given things was easy; he had always been given things, people were _supposed_ to give him things.

Now that he had arrived, standing in the dining room that had been converted to standing-room only cocktail tables, he was overwhelmed with how few other kids (“Teens,” he thought, self-corrected, now that he was thirteen himself) that were here.

Somehow, this was worse than being treated like a child and locked away; at least the room had arcade games and boys his own age to play with. He’d rather not be Russel, who was two years older and yet still forced to stay in the children’s room like some oversized toddler, but he could already tell this was going to turn into one of those excruciating nights standing around and watching all of the adults around him become more and more inebriated.

“Bif, dear,” His mother shared the same shade of red hair, though hers was, by this point, majority salon supplied. “Are all of your friends in the kiddie room?”

“No.” Bif sounded defensive even to his own ears, and his mother’s lips pursed in mild annoyance as she raised her wine glass to her mouth. “No, mommy—“

“Stop bothering your mother.” His father grunted, mustache quivering. His father was a big, broad man, the kind who always looked slightly overstuffed when wearing a suit, and only marginally better in a golf polo. “Where are your friends?”

Bif looked out into the sea of adults in their resort-wear best, crustacean-embroidered shorts and crisp-collared polos. He could see Chad’s parents, but Chad himself was absent from their side. Mr. and Mrs. Ogilvie were across the way, but with no sign of Parker at all.

“I’m not sure.” Bif hesitated.

“Why don’t you run off to the kid’s room, then? Find your friends”

Bif’s eyes widened in slight panic. “ _Dad_.”

His mother sighed. Bif looked to her, silently pleading, but her eyes had already averted bar side.

“Bif-” A voice called, a hand tapping impatiently at his shoulder.

Bif turned. He knocked into Derby Harrington, his body turning too suddenly, clumsy; his elbow connected with Derby’s wrist, and for a split second his glass was suspended in air. The cola rose in a dark arc and landed— thankfully, though his heart was still beating at a mile a minute— on the carpet, instead of Derby’s light blue Aquaberry polo.

“Bif Taylor-Tremblay—“ His father’s voice rose.

There were a few adults nearby who had immediately noticed the mild ruckus, and though some shot Bif an annoyed glare, they seemed more concerned with barking at a server to clean it than to chastise him. The resultant swarm of bow-tied servers was a good distraction to get lost into. Derby grabbed him by the elbow, steering him off.

Bif stumbled along, his throat closing up. “I’m sorry.”

Derby frowned up at him, but said nothing more, shaking his head as he led him. Bif had grown two inches over the summer, and more times than not, he found himself not realizing the sudden size of his constantly-aching body. He had been thinking of taking up boxing, if only to learn how to move in a way that didn’t hold the same level of destruction as an overexcited golden retriever.

Bif tried again, “Apologies—”

Derby released his arm. “It’s fine.” Derby graciously accepted with some annoyance, brushing off the front of his shirt, despite nothing having touched him. “Actually, I was hoping I’d see you out here.”

“Well, of course. Where else would I be, the kids room?” Bif asked, scoffing with disbelief under his breath.

Derby laughed. “Well, Chad is. Tad’s also in there.”

Bif smiled. “Embarrassing.” If someone had told him just a minute ago that Chad had been relegated to the play room, he probably would have put himself back there, if only to have someone his age to talk to. Tad was more understandable, being a year younger, though he liked to insert himself amongst the older kids, much to their annoyance of late.

But now Derby was here, and the notion of being anywhere else seemed trivial. He followed him towards the back of the party, plucking food off the trays of maître d′s as he went.

“Where’s Pinky?” He asked between bites of impossibly small crudités.

Derby huffed, settling into a corner with his back against the wall. “‘Where’s Pinky?’” Derby’s aquiline nose scrunched, his repetition higher in tone. “Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

“Maybe,” Bif grinned, leaning in. “Because you’re _betrothed_?” It had been finalized between the Harringtons and Gauthiers this summer. They were betrothed, a sort of pre-pre-engagement— they were going to get _married_ one day. The idea of it had traveled around their age group in a strange wave of gentle teasing and vulgar jokes that Bif often found himself laughing to, though he couldn’t always tell if they were factually, or anatomically, correct.

Girls were— something else, entirely, still not entirely great, but not as loathsome as they had been in their younger grammar school years. Bryce had said he’d seen his nanny’s boob once, but the likelihood of that being true was low, and even if it was, not very enviable; she was unattractive, and more importantly, their grandparents age.

Derby rolled his eyes, sniffing dismissively. “I suppose.” He crossed his arms, “She is my cousin, though. I don’t know.”

It wasn’t a serious complaint, said more in vague annoyance than an actual objection. Marrying a distant blood-relative was more common than not for a Harrington and anyone of prestige in the Vale. The Taylor-Tremblay’s made money, but not Harrington money, Bif knew that much; at least, he knows he’s not being paired off like Derby is, not yet, though he knows one day his wife will probably be chosen in some way for him. But that was in the far future, too far for him to care about— and, besides, girls in general as a category still had at least one firm foot on the side of _gross_ , even if Bif laughed at the jokes and looked at the pilfered magazines along with the rest of the boys. He was still not as interested in them as some of the others were, but he was sure it would happen in time.

The conversation lulled. They watched the adults mingle and filter by. Usually someone like Gord would say something more about it, or some of the older boys that hovered through their social circle, but Bif didn’t want to keep talking about her. “Marriage is stupid.”

Derby seemed more than happy to change the subject, glancing back at Bif. “Are you as bored as I am?”

Bif smiled at Derby. “Extremely.”

Derby smirked. “Let’s _do_ something.” There it was, implied in his voice and the smug quirk of his lips, some sort of trouble that they could get up to. “Because I think if I have to stand here all night, watching our parents get drunk, I will be driven _mad_.”

“Oh—“ Bif was never as quick of a thinker as Derby had been, “Should we go find the others?” Derby looked uninterested, picking imaginary lint from his shirt. Bif cleared his throat, eyes shifting around. There wasn’t much to do that didn’t seem either boring or juvenile, but his eyes fell onto the glass ocean-side wall of the yacht club, and how empty the deck seemed beyond the throng of people inside blocking their view. “Or, or, go out on the deck?”

That must have struck something. Derby lit up. “Excellent idea.” He grabbed Bif’s forearm, pushing him lightly in the direction of the ocean-view deck. “After you.”

Bif glanced towards his parents at the bar. They were already engrossed in their own conversations and avid social climbing. Derby’s hands were insistent against his back, and he lead the way through the throng of adults, muttering excuses under his breath as they pushed their way through.

Despite it being an end of the summer party, the New England weather hadn’t been kind. It was dreary for what was supposed to be one of their last summer days, the sky clouded with heavy clouds and the wind cutting through the residual summer heat. Fall always came too fast. The waves crashed against the edge of the pier, flinging salt into the air, briefly reflected in the multi-colored rays of the setting sun.

For the amount of people that were contained inside, the deck was abandoned. The tables and chairs were empty and stacked against the walls, and nobody stood at the bar on the left. Derby walked to it, and Bif followed. When he leaned up against the bar, Bif found himself ducking behind it.

They didn’t keep much out here when not in use, but they did have some basics. “Are you going to bartend?” Derby’s teasing lilt caused him to bang his head against the edge; he swore, his hand shooting up to cradle his skull, pain radiating dully from the point of impact.

“I guess.” Bif glanced over the bar, still doubled over and sorely rubbing at his scalp. “There’s not much out here.”

“I’m sure you can be creative.”

Bif ducked under once more. He grabbed two glasses with one hand, clinking as he pinched them together so he could also fist a grenadine bottle by the cap in his grasp. His other hand found the neck half-empty fifth of vodka before he straightened and laid out his finds. He faltered. Ice would be preferable to none, but this being his first time behind a professional bar like this— not his father’s, or the beach house— he wasn’t sure exactly where they kept the ice amongst all the salt-crusted stainless steel. He did find the soda gun, however, and experimentally squirted it over the sink; much to his secret delight, it was still working.

He eyeballed the amount of vodka into each glass, and then filled the rest with soda. Bif smirked, glancing up. Derby’s arms were folded against the bartop, watching him with faint amusement.

“Your drink, sir.” Bif said it in an accent he thought sounded like a butler, but came out more like the way Tad spoke— which, given his lineage, was about one and the same. He pushed the glass forward, until it was almost touching Derby’s bare forearm.

Derby’s eyes shifted, raising a hand to grab the glass by the rim. “Aren’t you forgetting...?”

“Oh—“ The grenadine. Bif grabbed it. “Maybe. I thought this looked—“

Better, maybe, more convincingly like something they could lie about and try as pass off as plain soda, like Sprunk. And also, somehow, more adult, like the tall, neat and clear drinks his mother would drink with her pills, or the drinks his father poured in his office, with just two perfectly symmetrical cubes of ice.

Not that anyone would say anything either way if they were caught. They were both thirteen, it was the last big party before summer ended, and they were going to finally attend Bullworth Academy in the fall. They were practically adults.

Bif tilted the grenadine into his drink, fumbling for straws. They hadn’t been put away for the summer yet, a fistful sitting paper-wrapped in a too-big plastic jar. Grabbing two, he ripped the top of the paper off, only to blow the remnant of the wrapper towards the other end of the bar. The first sip is practically the entirety of the syrup, saccharine and cloying, followed immediately by what tasted mostly of alcohol. The abrupt change burned on its way down, curling like acid on the back of his tongue, promising bile.

Bif coughed.

“Alright?”

“Fine, just fine.” The second pour of grenadine was more generous, and he does the same for Derby, turning the drinks neon red. “Here.”

“Better?” Derby questioned, looking warily at his glass.

Bif hadn’t thought his grimace had been that foreboding, but he steeled his face all the same. “It’s not bad.” He was personally not a fan of alcohol or the taste of it in general, but that felt like something deeply embarrassing to admit to his peers, especially Derby Harrington, who felt smarter and more in control, more adult, than Bif could ever imagine; he considered himself a good friend of Derby’s, a best friend, maybe, but he wouldn’t have that privilege if he acted like some dork, if he babied out on what was supposed to be fun and forbidden.

Derby picked up his glass carefully. He picked up drinks like an adult did, unfettered with concern of being caught or chastised; Derby was the one who always liked to pull him over towards the wetbar, to sneak a glass of champagne. He took a small sip, expression contained and unreadable. His eyes shifted.

“It’s not bad. It’s okay.” Only on his second sip, concentrating on Derby’s face, did Bif notice a slight wince. He pretended to look away when he felt Derby’s stare shift up to bore into his skull, as if daring him to call him out. “It’s fine.”

“Alright.” Bif smiled, fleetingly, glancing up to Derby’s cool eyes and back down again. It was much more bearable to stare at the wood grain of the bar than to look over at Derby. (Down, if he was being fair; he was taller than Derby now, though somehow he still didn’t _feel_ any taller, which he couldn’t understand.)

“I had something similar,” Derby offered, suddenly standing. He rounded the bar, sidling in behind it next to Bif. “When we vacationed in Guarma last summer. But I do think this sort of thing is better left to the help.”

Bif supposed that maybe that wasn’t a bad thing. He would rather not have Derby see him as someone who could make drinks as well as a bartender. That definitely did not seem like a skill people like them had. “My dad makes his own drinks in his office.”

“Well, that’s different.” Derby explained as he himself ducked behind the bar, clearly searching for something. “That’s the proper way for a man to make a drink. That’s different.” Derby knew these sort of things, and Bif nodded sagely with the straw still in his mouth.

There was nobody else here, other than what looked like a busboy skulking around the shadows of the back kitchen door, smoking a foul-smelling cigarette as he glumly watched them sink cutlery into the sea. And for all intents and purposes, he was considered a nobody as well, just another in a long line of forgotten service workers. Surrounded by help all their lives, inconsequential ones faded into the background of Bif’s point of view. Or maybe, most people seemed to fade like that when he stood next to Derby Harrington, his platinum blonde hair mussed in the seaside wind, flinging knives across the water like ninja stars. It made his stomach hurt to think about that too hard, both thrilling and nauseating all at once. Instead, Bif hurled another fork into the waves like a frisbee, watching it disappear with a small plop that was instantly swept up into the surf.

“Are you excited?” Derby’s voice had that just barely contained edge to it. “You know, for the Academy.”

“Of course.” That was an understatement on Bif’s part. He had never been this excited to attend school before. 

Derby glanced sideways at Bif, underneath dark lashes. “I’m sure your father already made the prerequisite donation for housing, correct?”

“Uh, yeah. _Of course_.” Bif laughed, strangely thrilled that Derby had asked him. Because of course his father did; they donated enough that he would have one of the coveted Harrington House bedrooms irregardless of what Derby felt about it. But there was something nice in that offhand invite Harrington had lobbed his way. 

“Good.” Derby had been practically vibrating for the past month in anticipation, its undercurrent felt in everything he did. Going to Bullworth was like a miniature trust fund inheritance; Harrington House, his grandfather’s legacy, awaited him. There had not been an actual Harrington in there in a decade; and that, according to Derby, had been a cousin from an unfavored uncle, a Harrington barely in name or attitude. Derby was, and always had been, the golden boy; and though he kept his face charming and relatively collected in all other instances, in private he was frothing at the bit to finally walk through those gates, to take what was owed.

“This year is going to be my year.” Derby punctuated each sentence with a throw. “Every year is going to be my year.” And then his eyes shifted, settling with such weight on Bif that it felt like something grand and monumental with the waves crashing in his ears. “It’s going to be _our_ year, right, Bif?”

Bif felt a little dizzy, like he may just pitch over the deck railing and into the water right then and there. “Yeah, it is.”

“I think they’re naming a wing after us, in the library.” Derby paused, “Not that I’ll ever spend much time in there.”

Derby held out his hand. Bif carried all the silverware Derby had gathered from behind the bar in a cloth napkin bouquet, and he handed Derby a spoon. He watched him hurl it across the waves. “Me neither.” Bif agreed. Derby smiled at him. “We’re not nerds.”

He laughed. “No, no we’re not. We’re much better than that.”

“Yeah.” Bif repeated. They went through all of the cutlery. The sun was slowly setting, earlier now than it had the day before, as the days creeped slowly towards September. The busboy returned inside, taking with him the smell of smoke, the kitchen door slamming shut behind him.

For good measure, Bif tossed the napkin into the sea, but it didn’t have the same satisfying feeling of throwing utensils and listening to the plop they made as they landed; instead, he watched the white of the napkin float until it was snatched by the surf and dragged under. Their glasses, long since empty, laid overturned on their sides, red syrup pooled along the lip.

Next to him, Derby sighed.

Bif shoved his hands into the pockets of his shorts. “Should we go back inside?”

“Not yet.” Derby said.

“Then what?” Bif hummed. “We can visit the _kids_ in their room?”

Derby stiffened. “Why?” he frowned, “No, let’s leave them.”

Bif had thought Derby would have wanted to visit them, taunt them a bit. “Alright.”

“I don’t know.” He sounded cross. They could run down to the docks, but there wasn’t much to do down there, either, other than sit at the edge and kick their feet over the water, and it was starting to get cold out. Bif shifted impatiently. “Let’s just go inside, then. My father should be trashed by now.”

“Mine too.” Bif offered.

Derby sniffed. His face was hidden from Bif, turned out towards the water. “Summer’s almost gone.” His voice caught in his throat, and it sounded a little bit like it had when they were very, very young, before he took those coaching lessons, before the rest of them and _Tad Spencer_ especially had decided to ape it. Bif had never bothered. What was the point when Derby had, and done it so effortlessly?

Bif looked out over the water to where Derby was staring. “That’s not a bad thing.”

“No.” Derby tilted his chin up, “No, it isn’t.”

**Author's Note:**

> the last time I wrote Derby and Bif was 12 years ago and it was the first novel-length fic i ever wrote and put out on ff.net. You never forget your first. :’) I don’t know if anyone is in this fandom anymore, let alone reading fics of two side characters but thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are always much appreciated.


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